In the Flip- Flops of Jesus: A Pilgrim's Sojourn in La La Land

By Jim Lawrence

An irreverent and often scandalous behind-the-scenes look at the early days of the Christian movie business.
January 1952 -- a time of "blacklists," the Korean War and A-bomb blasts in Nevada. When 23-year-old Randy Dillard leaves North Carolina to work for a religious film company in Hollywood he discovers that nothing is what he expects: a former cowboy star plays Jesus; the key grip produces stag films; the narrator spouts filthy limericks; the screenwriter is a blacklisted atheist; the denominational representatives love Las Vegas gambling; and the producer of The Living Savior is Jewish. Should be an interesting year.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 30, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462830459

Jim Lawrence

Jim Lawrence lives in the North Carolina mountains with has partner Barbara and a precocious Cairn Terrier. He spent several years in Los Angeles working as a writer/director before going into higher education. He has taught screenwriting, video production and nonlinear video editing at the university level, and in retirement he now teaches courses in the UNCA College for Seniors. He and Barbara have made a number of trips to Scotland. He studied Scottish-Gaelic for six years but confesses that the language “finally got the better of him.” 

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Copyright © 2009 by Jim Lawrence.

All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover photograph and design by Jim Lawrence

Author photograph by Christopher Breedlove.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

66098

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

For Barbara

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A NOTE TO THE READER

Though on the whole a work of fiction, some of the scandalous incidents related herein are loosely based on actual events I either experienced or witnessed myself, or on things I learned about while working as a writer/director for a Hollywood-based religious film company in the 1970’s. Other incidents have been greatly embellished or completely fabricated and I leave it to your imagination to determine which is which.

The Christian film industry as described in this novel no longer exists, having succumbed to the prevalence of low cost video equipment and other new technologies. Nevertheless from roughly the late 1940’s until its final demise in the late 1970’s, companies such as the fictitious Family Focus Features produced hundreds of sixteen-millimeter films and thirty-five-millimeter filmstrips for distribution to churches, parochial schools and the U.S. armed forces, numerous syndicated television series and specials, and even a few motion pictures for theatrical release.

Admittedly this story is presented warts and all and that includes the use of vulgarity and profanity in its telling. However, in the final analysis it is a tribute to the motley and unlikely group of filmmakers who slipped on their flip-flops and followed in the footsteps of the Master—well, sort of.

Jim Lawrence

Asheville, North Carolina

2009

66098-LAWR-layout.pdf

Chapter One

The letter finally arrived in the early morning mail on Monday, January fourteenth.

Postmaster Harley Ledbetter placed the delivery notice in the box shortly after eight-thirty and Randy received it just before ten.

It was first time he had ever had to sign for anything. He had to pull off his frayed right woolen mitten in order to grip the ballpoint pen tightly enough to scrawl his name on the receipt.

Harley adjusted his wire-frame bifocals and leaned halfway across the counter top as he delivered the envelope into Randy’s hands. He hovered expectantly, consumed with curiosity, and stroked his bristly tobacco-stained mustache.

Randy Dillard, he said, who you reckon would be sendin’ you a registered letter all the way from Hollywood, California?

Nobody I know of, Randy replied.

That was not exactly true. He had immediately recognized the logo—an unwinding film reel overlaid by a blue celluloid cross—as well as the return address.

Hope it’s good news anyway, Harley said.

Me, too, said Randy.

Harley shrugged, a bit disappointed not to have gleaned some juicy tidbit of gossip to pass along. He scowled unconsciously and slid over to take a shoebox-sized package from Mrs. Frieda Schulmeister.

What you got in there, Miz Shoomeister? he asked, shaking it lightly and pretending to sniff the brown paper wrapping. Some of your left-over Moravian Christmas cookies?

Randy gathered up the rest of the church mail that Harley had placed on the counter top and made his way across the stuffy, undersized lobby.

He passed by the side wall filled with numbered copper-plated mail boxes, the cork bulletin board plastered with yellowing F.B.I. wanted posters, and the black pot bellied wood burning stove in the corner, all the while continuing to stare at his name on the envelope without opening it.

He was in fact trembling just a bit. It was in part from the effects of the icy wind, the swirling snow and the twenty nine-degree temperature that had accompanied his walk into town and that awaited him just on the other side of the double oak doors, but mostly if was from anticipation.

He slipped the envelope into the right front pocket of his heavy brown corduroy coat and secured the flap. He was daring to hope that the letter inside just might change his life in ways he could scarcely now imagine and he wanted to wait until he was alone to read something so potentially monumental.

The rest of the mail he stuffed into his left front pocket and then he pulled on his mitten. His thumb and forefinger poked through holes in the threadbare material. Bracing himself, he pushed open the doors and gingerly stepped outside.

There was a little more activity on Main Street now in spite of the biting cold. A few resilient pedestrians carefully made their way along the freshly shoveled sidewalks that fronted the hodgepodge of rusty red brick storefronts. A small representation of delivery vans, farmer’s pick up trucks and well-traveled passenger cars progressed at a snail’s pace down the salt-strewn surface of the two-lane black top.

The road that passed through the run down business section was a stretch of the state highway that went on to cross the mountains from North Carolina into Tennessee. In this rather unremarkable township traffic slowed only for the railroad crossing and for the single stop light, which dangled a bit precariously from the power line that stretched over the intersection of Main Street and Balsam Gap Road.

The small crowd of curious spectators that had been gathered in front of Wright’s Appliance Store had now dissipated. Earlier when Randy had passed by they were all glued to the large Philco television set in a mahogany cabinet that was displayed in the front window.

On the screen were the static-marred black and white images of a new NBC program out of New York City called the Today show. Randy had paused briefly to watch some of the banter between host Dave Garroway and Jack Lescoulie.

Now however he barely slowed down as he passed the television display in the appliance store window, though he did catch a quick glimpse of his reflection as he walked by.

His wind-blown auburn hair was starting to get a bit shaggy and hung down to his eyebrows. He was overdue for a haircut but had been putting it off because Joe Latta the bowl barber as he called him owned the only shop in town and he did not feel like having the sides of his head shaved bald again.

His nose and cheeks had a ruddy texture to them that made his green eyes stand out in contrast. For the most part he appeared a little younger than his twenty-three years, with the exception of the anxious expression he generally wore on his face these days. He was, the local folks said, a nice lookin’ boy if only he didn’t act so serious all the time.

He moved as rapidly as he dared on the slippery sidewalks. He had what was called a game right knee, something that had plagued him ever since he had a serious sledding accident when he was nine years old.

It stiffened up and became quite painful during cold weather, but each time this happened Randy would remind himself that if not for the injury to his knee he might very well have been drafted into the army under the provisions of the Universal Military Training and Service Act.

He was sorely conflicted about the United Nations military action in Korea, especially since things seemed to be going so badly for the allies lately. At the same time he was of more than two minds about actually applying for status as a conscientious objector.

He was not yet twelve when the United States entered World War II so this was the first time he had ever faced such a dilemma. Fortunately, his hometown draft board back in Murfreesboro, Tennessee had classified him I-O, available for civilian work assignment, and that had temporarily spared him having to make a decision one way or another.

Randy moved away from the short four blocks that made up the entire downtown area and onto the unpaved lane that led up the steep hill toward the church parsonage. He was careful to pick his way through the soft snow piled along the shoulder in order to keep from slipping on the icy surface of the gravel road. Every now and then he would stop to rest his sore knee and to tap his right mitten against his coat pocket, just to make sure the letter was still there.

The turn-of-the-century Queen Anne style pastor’s residence was ordinarily about a twenty-minute walk from downtown but that was in good weather. On this day it took Randy nearly half an hour. He had slipped twice on the ice and took one headlong tumble into a snow bank before finally reaching the broad wooden steps that led up to the spacious porch.

He stamped his pull-on rubber Duck boots hard several times on the coarse coir Come Unto Me welcome mat and got as much of the snow off as he could before going inside. Tracking in was a cardinal sin at the church house and he was not in the mood for another lecture.

In stark contrast to the near arctic conditions outside the parsonage interior was stifling hot. The aged cold-fired furnace in the basement was always kept running at full blast, especially on winter mornings such as this.

Randy dug from his pocket the church-related letters, circulars and bulletins and placed them in the blue and white porcelain bowl on the small hall table. After carefully retrieving his own special correspondence, he stuffed the mittens into the pockets of his coat and hung it with the other coats and jackets on the old-fashioned hall tree just inside the front door. Then he slipped off the pull-on boots and carefully placed them on the black rubber mat designed precisely for that purpose.

Quickly and quietly he limped down the long hallway, trying in vain to keep the antiquated oak floorboards from creaking under his weight. He did not want to alert Mrs. Filcher the pastor’s wife that he was back from his errand to the post office. She would only remind him of many other things she had for him to do and he really wanted a few minutes by himself right now.

His small room was situated at the end of the hall, directly across from the kitchen. It had at one time been a live-in maid’s quarters but it had been Randy’s rent-free abode since he took the part-time job with Rev. Filcher last July, just after his graduation from the University of Tennessee.

He slipped inside and quietly shut the door. Right away he slid the black iron deadbolt lock across until it clicked into place. He tested it to make certain it was secure because Mrs. Filcher had an annoying habit of bursting in on him when he least expected it.

He turned on the small ersatz Tiffany lamp sitting on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the undersized trundle bed, trying to keep from sinking into the sagging mattress. He was actually starting to perspire in his red winter long johns, tan corduroy slacks and plaid flannel shirt, but he was too keyed up to concern himself with that now.

Tentatively he stretched out his right leg. His knee was throbbing with pain but he scarcely noticed it because all his attention was now focused on the letter.

He held it in his hands for a moment, once again studying the logo and the return address in the amber light.

Then he took a deep breath and gently slid his fingernail under the flap to open it.

The envelope contained a typed letter on company stationery and another typed document of two pages that had been stapled together.

Randy slowly unfolded the contents, suddenly realizing how nervous he was.

What if it did not say what he hoped it would say?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

He held the letter up before him and read:

Family Focus Features

5828 Santa Monica Blvd.

Hollywood, California

January 10, 1952

Mr. Randy Dillard

P.O. Box 825

Sardis Hill, North Carolina

Dear Randy:

Once again I want to congratulate you for the fine work you did writing the Easter filmstrip series. We just completed putting it all together with the narration and the music and everyone here is very impressed with your work. I think it’s even better than the Advent series you did for us last summer.

As I mentioned to you the last time we spoke, we do in fact have an unexpected opening here on staff and it’s a position we need to fill right away. I’ve been talking you up to the powers that be and they’ve given me the go-ahead to offer you the job, providing you can get out here by the end of the month.

Normally they would want to interview an applicant in person but because you’ve done such excellent work for us as a free-lancer this past year they decided to make an exception in your case. (Also, between you and me, I don’t think they wanted to pay for you to come all the way from North Carolina just to interview!)

We can offer you $4,800/year to start. I know that’s not very much, but we can supplement your salary with an apartment that the company has leased on Sunset Boulevard, not too far from the studio. The rent has been pre-paid through December 31st, so hopefully that will help with your finances.

I wish we could bring you out in style by train or airplane but I’m afraid that’s just not in the budget. We will however reimburse you for your bus fare will help out with the cost of shipping your belongings.

If this is satisfactory to you, please sign the enclosed contract and send it back to me ASAP. Feel free to call me collect to let me know your decision or if you have any questions.

I’m looking forward to working with you in person.

Yours in Christ,

The Rev. Paul K. Hansen

Audio-Visual Producer

Randy read the letter again, just to be certain of what it said. Then he read it again. Then at last he looked over the contract.

Forty-eight hundred dollars! Nearly one hundred dollars a week!

He said it out loud, carefully mouthing each word.

Forty-eight hundred dollars!

Maybe that was not very much to the folks at Family Focus Features but to him it sounded like a fortune. After all, he had been getting by (barely) on twenty-five dollars a week since July first of last year, supplemented only by the few hundred dollars he had made some writing filmstrip scripts and a few devotional materials for various Baptist publications.

Forty-eight hundred dollars a year in addition to a free apartment was more than he had dared to imagine, even in his wildest fantasies.

Right away he had a powerful urge to fall right down on his bum knee and offer up his sincere thanks to God for this miracle but before he could act on this impulse there was a sharp knock on the door.

Randy? You in there? I thought I heard you come back.

It was Mrs. Filcher. Her piercing nasal voice had a way of making Randy wince even when it came through a closed and locked door.

Yes, ma’am, he said. Mail’s in the bowl.

The doorknob rattled as Mrs. Filcher tried to turn it.

Randy, your door’s locked.

Yes, ma’am. Be right there.

He carefully folded the letter and the contact and put them back in the envelope. He looked around for some safe place to hide it and decided that inside the King James Bible on the nightstand was as good a place as any. It immediately fell open to the Song of Songs (or the Song of Solomon, depending upon which version of the Holy Bible one happened to have), his favorite nighttime reading matter, and that is where he stuck the letter.

While Randy was painfully getting to his feet, Mrs. Filcher tried the door again, apparently thinking it would have somehow magically become unlocked, and then she knocked once more.

Randy?

Comin’.

Randy unlatched the deadbolt and pulled open the door.

Hello, Mrs. Filcher, he said.

What were you doin’ in there? she asked, glancing past him into the room.

Uh, nothin’. Just got back from town. What can I do for you, Mrs. Filcher?

He quickly pulled the door shut behind him.

Mrs. Filcher eyed him suspiciously but seemingly decided to let it pass. There was just so much for Randy to do and so little time for him to do it all.

You remember the circle’s meetin’ here tonight at seven-thirty. I have to have all those things from the store. You still have the list?

Yes, ma’am. I thought I’d go… 

Without waiting for him to finish she slithered off down the hallway. Randy limped along close behind her. His knee was starting to feel a little better in the sauna-like warmth of the house but it still hurt.

And that parlor’s a mess, a pig sty, that’s what it is. I’d just die if those ladies saw it like that. It needs sweepin’ an’ dustin’, an’ I mean more than just a quick once-over like you do sometimes.

Yes, ma’am. I’ll… 

She went on. And on. And on.

Randy heard her, sort of, but he had heard it all at supper the night before and again at breakfast that morning so he was only half-listening.

He was instead thinking about Susannah and how he would share with her his wonderful news.

It was much too important for a phone call, even if he could use the parsonage telephone without Mrs. Filcher hovering over him and listening in on every word. No, it would have to be in person. But when? With his endless list of chores, how would he ever get away?

Do I need to write all this down? Mrs. Filcher was saying as she retrieved the mail from the porcelain bowl and cursorily thumbed through each piece.

No, ma’am. I’ll get right on it.

See that you do.

She left him at the parlor door and stiffly lifted the hem of her long black dress with her free hand in order to swoop up the stairs to the second floor. There she usually disappeared for some time in her room doing God knows what, descending only occasionally to dispense acerbic criticisms of Randy’s work around the house.

Mrs. Filcher was a dour, rail-thin woman with a back that was so rigid that Randy sometimes wondered if it was a steel rod instead of a spine that supported it. From the moment he first met her it had always amazed him that, for a minister’s wife, she appeared to be so downright miserable all the time. In fact, this perpetual state of unhappiness had etched such a deep scowl on her pasty white, tightly drawn face that it had become permanent.

The expression was so much a part of her appearance that on those infrequent occasions when she did try to smile all she could manage was a kind of grotesque grimace. This did not happen often since she rarely saw anything worth smiling about. The only thing that seemed to bring her any pleasure at all was learning about the sins and sufferings of others, the more salacious, disgusting and gruesome the details, the better.

Randy took the broom from the hall closet and stepped into the airless, gloomy parlor. The heavy burgundy velvet drapes on the front windows were all pulled tightly shut so as not to let even the slightest ray of sunshine into the room. Mrs. Filcher said it was so that the freshly reupholstered furniture would not fade, but Randy often fantasized that it was actually because she, like most vampires, had a mortal dread of the morning sun.

He flipped on the kitschy cut glass chandelier that hung from the ceiling and started to work. He swept up dust, tiny balls of lint and a few dried up insects from under the oak secretary, the massive antique armoire, clearly out of place yet nonetheless the featured display item in the room, and the Steinway spinet with its well-worn ivory keys. Lying open on the upright piano was a much-used copy of the Southern Harmony, evidence of Rev. Filcher’s love of shaped note hymn singing.

Randy then moved with his broom to the two stiff-backed Victorian chairs and the uncomfortable matching horsehair sofa, on either end of which was a small mahogany end table. On each table was a lamp similar to the one in his room, only larger.

On the right end table was the only framed photograph in the room. It was an eight-by-ten black and white matted print that memorialized the Filcher’s wedding day.

It depicted the two of them standing side by side on the steps of a white clapboard church. It was somewhat reminiscent of the farm couple in Grant Wood’s American Gothic, except in this case the rather rotund Rev. Filcher had replaced the lean farmer.

Not surprising to Randy the Filchers never had any children so there were none of the usual family pictures adorning the walls. Instead there was a large framed faded reproduction of Warner Sallman’s Head of Christ on one and an equally large and equally faded reproduction of his Christ at Heart’s Door on another. Above the parlor doorway was an old-fashioned framed embroidered sampler with green stitching on it that read, Happy the Home When God is There.

He swept up a small pile in the center of the room and was about to go and get the dustpan when he abruptly stopped himself.

What was he doing? He had just been offered the greatest opportunity of his young life and here he was sweeping out the parlor instead of sharing the news with the one person in the world who meant the most to him.

There was no way around it. He would just have to risk the wrath of Mrs. Filcher. Susannah had to be told and she had to be told now!

He quickly checked the time on his Hopalong Cassidy and Topper wristwatch, the only watch he’d ever owned. He could make it out to Susannah’s school and back without Mrs. Filcher knowing he’d ever been gone, but he’d have to hurry.

He left the pile in center of the parlor and returned the broom to its place in the hall closet. He moved as fast as he could back down the hall to his room to retrieve the letter. Then, with only a fleeting glance up the stairs, he snatched his coat from the hall tree, his boots from the black rubber mat, and slipped out the front door.

It was not quite as cold as it had been only moments earlier. In fact, the crisp clear air brushing against his face now felt quite invigorating after being inside the stifling and oppressive parsonage.

The wind gusts had tapered off and the sun was now fully emerging from behind the rolling gray clouds. Specular flashes of sunlight sparkled on the fresh-fallen snow and from the rows of icicles that hung along the eaves of the houses. The lovely Christmas card looks of things matched perfectly with Randy’s increasingly upbeat mood.

He sat down on the front steps just to pull on his boots, glancing furtively over his shoulder to make certain he had made a clean get-away. Then he slipped on his mittens, eased down off the steps, took a few tentative paces along the cleared walkway and soon he was humming softly to himself.

He might have been trudging along for the most part on snow and ice, but as far as Randy was concerned at that moment he was walking on air.

He did not own a car but it was only a few short blocks to the James K. Polk Community School where Susannah Hastings worked. Like Randy she was a recent college graduate, having earned a degree in Elementary Education from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Unlike Randy she in point of fact had a real full time job teaching third and fourth graders.

She was temporarily living at home with her parents in order to pay off the last of her student loans and to save up enough money for an eventual move to someplace like Charlotte or maybe even Atlanta. As she had made clear to Randy on more than one occasion, for her, growing up in a small mountain town was one thing but living there for the rest of her life was something else entirely.

Randy had met Susannah on his very first Sunday morning at Bethel Baptist Church. She had been singing in the choir and he had spotted her right away. In reality she would have been very hard to miss.

She had curly red hair that cascaded down around her shoulders, framed her delicate features and set off her large blue-green eyes. Her soft white skin had a kind of luminous glow to it, and on her face there were a few tiny freckles sprinkled on the end of her nose and scattered across her cheeks. She had a radiant, infectious smile, especially when she sang.

Randy had thoroughly embarrassed himself that first Sunday by staring at Susannah throughout the entire service. He very nearly came forward in answer to the final altar call, wholeheartedly willing once again to accept Jesus Christ as his personal Lord and Savior just to get a closer look at this angel. Before he could actually act on this irrational compulsion, however, the congregation concluded the singing of Just As I Am and Rev. Filcher bowed his head, raised his right hand and began the benediction.

Fortunately for Randy, the attraction had been mutual right from the start.

Before long he and Susannah had become friends and confidants. It started with him walking her home after choir practice on those long, lazy summer evenings when the sun did not fully set until after eight-thirty and the night sky then became alive with flickering fireflies and shooting stars.

It continued when he was at last invited to share Sunday dinners at the Hastings farm. By early fall it could rightly be said that they were in fact keeping company. There was even occasional oblique talk of a more serious type of relationship, if and when the time was right.

Mrs. Hastings had been won over right away but it had taken much longer for Mr. Hastings to come around. Not only was he a successful small farmer, he was also the Sardis Hill justice of the peace and a savvy local politician. He did not especially cotton to the idea of his only daughter going with a young man who still had not decided exactly what he wanted to do with his life.

The Judge, as folks called him, would press Randy about this from time to time. With genuine bafflement he would ask just what he planned to do with a college degree in American Literature, of all things. On those occasions Randy would talk vaguely of maybe going to theological seminary one day, once he had saved up enough money.

This last possibility was particularly troubling to Judge Hastings for a number of reasons but chiefly because Randy seemed intent on attending some bastion of liberalism such as Duke or Vanderbilt instead of the more conservative Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville.

Truth be told it was probably just as well that Randy had kept to himself his real ambition—to be a writer, possibly even to write for the movies one day.

Randy passed beneath the large black iron gate with the worn sign that read JAME K. PO COMMUNITY SCH OL and made his way up the walk to the main entrance.

The weathered ramshackle three-story wooden structure was showing the ill effects of too many mountain winters. Ol’ Polk, as the locals called it, had originally been built back in 1917 but had been added on to in a rather haphazard fashion over the years. Though there were sporadic discussions at the town council about building a new high school (usually during an election cycle) nothing had happened along those lines and the school still served the first through the twelfth grades in the same building.

When Randy checked in at the principal’s office he was surprised to learn that Susannah was not in her classroom.

Her mother called first thing this mornin’, Mrs. Patton said, looking up from her cluttered desk, her eyes magnified four-fold by the wire-rimmed reading glasses that were clamped on the end of her nose. We didn’t get it all—you know how th’ connections are on these party lines—but it seems that Susannah had to stay home today because of illness. Leastwise, that’s about all we were able to take in before th’ line went dead.

Phone line’s out?

We heard tell it was ice on the trees, Mrs. Patton said. Seems like just about everybody that lives north of town has lost both phone an’ electric.

She returned her attention to the disorganized stack of papers on her desk.

This news was of some concern to Randy. He had just seen Susannah yesterday at the morning worship service at Bethel Baptist as well as at Sunday dinner with her parents and she was perfectly fine. What could have happened?

He checked his watch. The walk to the Hastings farm would take him close to an hour especially since his knee was starting to bother him again. That meant the house cleaning chores and the trip to the grocery store would have to be postponed until mid to late afternoon at the earliest.

It also meant that he would never hear the end of it from Mrs. Filcher, but that was just too bad, he thought. Some things were more important that sweeping out parlors and buying Wonder Bread and Duke’s mayonnaise for finger sandwiches.

He limped out of the schoolhouse and crossed to the street, nearly slipping again on the slick walkway in his haste. Fortunately he did not have to walk very far along the snow-covered shoulder of the highway before Buford Wakefield took pity on him and stopped to give him a ride in his brand new red Ford pick up truck.

Randy arrived at the Hastings place off County Road shortly before noon and was warmly greeted at the farmhouse door by Mrs. Laura Anne Hastings.

She was a plump, rosy-cheeked woman with bright carrot-colored hair, which she kept piled up on top of her head. In terms of both her physical presence and pleasant personality she was as different from Mrs. Filcher as day is from night.

Smiling with genuine delight, Mrs. Hastings wiped her hands on her large green apron, the one with the pink and yellow flowered border around the hem, and gushed, Why, Randy! What a nice surprise! Come on in an’ take a load off that knee. You’re just in time for some homemade vegetable soup.

She held the door open for him but he remained on the porch.

Is Susannah here, Mrs. Hastings? he asked. I stopped by the school and they said she was home sick.

What?

Is she all right?

Oh, that Mrs. Patton, Mrs. Hastings said with an exasperated sigh. Never could get anything straight. Susannah’s just fine, Randy. It’s that poor ol’ horse of hers. It took th’ colic last night an’ Susannah’s been out there in th’ barn nursin’ him since four-thirty this mornin’.

What about Doc Rivers? Randy asked. Has he been here?

Nobody knows where he’s at, Mrs. Hastings said. We tried callin’ ’till th’ phone line went dead but his wife had no idea where he was. Fin’ly th’ Judge decided to go over an’ pick up our neighbor Rufus Mahoney an’ they went out to look for him. That was more’n three hours ago an’ they haven’t come back yet.

Well, I’m glad Susannah’s okay, Randy said. Then, after a beat, I, uh, guess I should go an’ see how she’s doin’.

You tell her to come back to the house right now, Mrs. Hastings said sternly. "She’s been out there in that cold barn long enough. She will sure ’nuff will catch her death if she doesn’t take care of herself. Tell her to come in an’ get warm an’ have some hot soup.

Yes, ma’am, said Randy. I’ll tell her.

Tell her I won’t take no for an answer!

With that she stepped back inside and shut the door.

Randy cautiously made his way through the snow, following the path of freshly formed footprints that led to the weathered rust red cypress board barn out behind the house.

He pushed open the right barn door and went inside.

At first he could see very little, having just come from the bright sunshine and the reflective white covering of snow. He looked around, letting his eyes become accustomed to the dim light.

Susannah?

Over here, she replied softly. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically hoarse and strained. Randy followed it and found her in one of the horse stalls.

She was sitting on a pile of straw in one corner, her back pressed against the rough-hewn cypress slats. A stray shaft of sunlight from the edge of the boarded window fell across her face. Her eyes were red and the smudges of dirt on her cheeks were smeared with tears. Her heavy pea green canvas coat was covered with bits of straw and cached with dried manure. Randy could see from her drawn-up legs that she was still wearing her pink flannel pajamas but with a pair of riding boots instead of slippers.

Susannah was cradling the head of her chestnut Morgan horse Tony Boy in her arms. The animal lay very still and Randy immediately realized that it was not moving at all.

For him the little tableau was incredibly poignant and it made him think of a photograph he had once seen of Michelangelo’s marble sculpture Pieta.

I had him nineteen years, Susannah said softly, gently caressing the horse’s cheek. He came to live with us when I was just two years old.

What happened? Randy asked. It was the only thing he could think to say.

Colic, Susannah replied. He’s been prone to it over the years, but we always nursed him through it. Not this time, huh, boy?

Randy moved over beside her and stiffly knelt in the straw on his left knee. He slipped off his mittens, stuffed them in his coat pocket, and then reached out and gently touched her hair with his fingertips.

I’m so sorry, honey, she said softly. I know how much he meant to you.

He had a good life, she said simply. A good long life with people who loved him very much.

That he did.

From outside they could hear the noisy sounds of a vehicle approaching the barn. The clattering, sputtering six cycle ninety horsepower engine and the loud backfire from the rusty exhaust pipe meant that it was Judge Hastings’ war surplus Ford GTB Burma Jeep.

There was some scuffling then both barn doors were suddenly kicked open wide with a loud bang. Judge Bradford Hastings entered, dragging the bony veterinarian Dr. Peter Rivers by the scruff of his neck.

Rufus Mahoney followed behind. He was a tall, lean mountaineer with a tan, leathery face and a solemn expression, wearing a green John Deere cap and a faded denim jacket. He stopped just inside the barn door to take a plug of Red Man chewing tobacco from the top pocket of his overalls and to pop it in his mouth.

We fin’ly found th’ son of a bitch, the Judge fumed. He was out on an all-night bender in some hillbilly juke joint cross the state line over in Tennessee. We happened to drive by the place just as they were tossin’ his sorry behind out into the parkin’ lot.

He gave Rivers a shove and the vet landed heavily, face first in the mud and manure on the barn floor.

Judge Hastings was a stocky, heavy-set man who stood nearly six feet four. The bulky wool plaid coat he wore made him look even larger, somewhat suggestive of an angry grizzly. He had no difficulty in tossing the much smaller man around like a fifty-pound sack of Gran-I-Grit chicken feed.

He’s gone, daddy, Susannah said simply. He finally passed away about an hour ago.

The Judge took this in then moved over and planted one scuffed size thirteen Brogan boot on either side of the skinny vet, who was just starting to push himself up off the floor with his trembling hands.

I ought to wring your drunken neck, he growled, towering menacingly over Dr. Rivers.

It was colic, the pathetic figure sputtered, desperately trying to sober up. You know yourself, Judge. Sometimes we just can’t do nothin’ about it.

"You coulda done somethin’ if you’d been here!" Judge Hastings snapped.

Tony Boy was livin’ on borrowed time, Judge, Dr. Rivers said. We got lucky before, that’s all. We just got lucky

He was now shaking violently, a combination of abject terror and the D.T.’s.

It’s nobody’s fault, daddy, Susannah said. It was just his time to go.

Judge Hastings hesitated, and then moved away from the hapless vet to the stall door. He was starting to calm down a little and some of the deep crimson coloring began to fade from his bearded face.

Mahoney leaned casually against the front wall and took everything in rather stoically. From time to time he would spit a stream of tobacco juice from his bulging cheek on to the floor and then wipe the brown spittle dribbling down from his prickly chin with the back of his hand.

Immensely relieved that his life had been spared, at least momentarily, Dr. Rivers weakly sat up and struggled to catch his breath. He tightly clamped his palms against the sides of his temples, apparently trying to keep his brain matter from disgorging itself. His heart was pounding with such force that it literally pushed out of his chest and moved his left jacket pocket in and out.

I’m glad you’re here, Randy, Judge Hastings said warmly. Why don’t you take Susannah back to th’ house. Me an’ Rufus an’ this worthless sack of shit will take care of Tony Boy.

Dr. Rivers raised his head and took his palms from his temples. For a moment it looked as if he were about to protest the slur but then he seemed to reconsider and said nothing.

No, daddy, Susannah protested. I want to be with him.

Baby, please. Do it for me, Judge Hastings said. You been out here most of the night. Tony Boy’s gone. You need to take care of yourself right now.

Come on, Randy whispered to her. Let’s go inside. Your mom’s got some hot soup for you. I’m afraid she’ll kill me if I don’t bring you back with me.

She looked at him and somehow managed a slight smile. Even with her red eyes and her dirty, tear-stained face, Randy thought she looked exceptionally beautiful at this moment.

All right, she said.

She gave Tony Boy’s head one more loving embrace. Then she gently moved it from her lap and carefully laid it down on the straw. Randy awkwardly pushed himself up, then helped her to her feet and held her arm as he escorted her to the stall door.

Judge Hastings gave his daughter a long hug, tenderly crushing her against his massive chest and engulfing her within the protective circle of his strong arms.

We’ll see he’s taken care of proper, he said, lightly touching her face with his fingertips. Don’t you worry ’bout it.

Thank you, daddy, Susannah said.

With that she turned away and permitted Randy to walk her past the silent Rufus Mahoney, who nodded and touched the brim of his cap